


Forget It

by PeopleInThatBackRoom



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hetalia, Human AU, M/M, Multi, [England/Spain]
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-23 21:10:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2555816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeopleInThatBackRoom/pseuds/PeopleInThatBackRoom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Kirkland wasn't a big fan of Fate —he wasn't a big fan of anything, really— and has cursed it since the day he heard about it. Though, he finds himself in much of a shock when Antonio Fernández Carriedo enters his life. The Spaniard pretty much draws the Brit out of his shell —which he very much protests to on almost every occasion—  to the point in which Arthur believes: "This might work out after all."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everything Must Go

It was a brisk day in the month of October. The leaves on the trees were just beginning to blend in with the cool weather of the season, shedding their summer green clothes and putting on coats of light red, feathery brown, baked yellow, and pumpkin orange. With the wind blowing them about, they were like ornaments that peppered the cold ground and many other things. To people they were seen as either pretty or a nuisance.

To Arthur Kirkland, everything was the same-old, same-old.

The twenty-three year old Brit had been wandering around these parts of the quiet city of Gray Bay for what seemed like his whole life (well, since he had moved there with his parents when he was four, but still, four and twenty-three are a long way apart). It's always been this place. This same-old boring place that could do better without his existence present. Somehow, he was here anyway, like fate had some special surprise waiting for him.

_Hurry up, then_. He'd usually mutter to himself when he thought that. What was the use? That wouldn't happen. He too mature and too unwilling a person for fate to work its magic on him. He didn't exactly want it to mess with his life in the first place. He was perfectly fine the way he was.

Yeah right.

He was half-broke a-quarter-of-the-time (though, somehow he managed to pay the rent to his actually, pretty decent apartment on time), living on apples and food from a restaurant he worked at (as a trash, clean-up and delivery guy,  _not_  the cook), and on top of that —he really didn't want to work there— all his damn siblings were successful, well-off and _f_ _ar away from here_. He thought bitterly on that fine morning (fine for everyone who wasn't him). 

And yet, somehow, he was still living. Cold, alone, spiteful, half-broke, bad cook-

He frowned at his thoughts.  _Okay! I get it_! 

Ugh, just forget it.

The way he lived, was practically a crime to his relatives (who, he didn't give a fuck to, but anyone might know it's hard to keep calm when you're the sore thumb of the family). The very fact that he 'survived' the lifestyle was "crazy" to them —but no, he didn't want to change. He  _liked_  living like this.

He just........wished he'd be doing something else at times. Or going places he'd never seen before. Or-

_Shut it_. He hissed inwardly to himself.

And so, sitting on a icy-cold, worn out park bench, playing away on the guitar with quite calloused, numb fingers, getting some money (that money was given to him out of pity, was what he believed) to fit in his knitted beanie, was what went on in the average day of the acid-green eyed Brit.

Still, today seemed off.  _Really_  off, but...he couldn't exactly pinpoint it.

Maybe it was when little kids started putting in their small coins and mothers shot him dirty looks for not giving the money back. What could he say? He  _did_  need the money, and they supplied it, so? It was a done deal.

But, even then, he wasn't convicted of the day's normality.

As he played one of his favorite 'western' songs, looking up, he saw fierce emerald eyes looking back at him, and, (being much unlike himself) was more shocked than annoyed.

_Forget it. Don't talk. Don't talk. Forget it —forget you ever saw those eyes._

"W-what....."

_Forget it. Forget it. Forget it._

"P-please leave....." he whispered—giving power to the obvious fact that the stranger looking at him didn't hear his quiet plead. 

_Forget it. Forget it!_

"What do you want?" he finally spat out. 

_Oh, bollocks._

The stranger he had seen only smiled at him.

 _A big, warm, charming smile_.....

_Oh, shut it!_

"Hello," he spoke again, more snappishly this time. "Do  _you_  need something?"

This time, the handsome stranger reacted to his words, and spoke.  

"Ah, sorry," the sweet, rich voice replied. "I just couldn't help hearing you play your guitar —you are really good!"

 _Yes, you could_. Arthur thought to himself.  _You could've taken another pathway, but no —no, it seemed as if you purposely took that path around the park. Whatever the reason, I'm pretty sure both you and I know you could help yourself._

"Thanks," is what Arthur really said. Though he said it rather grumpily, the brown-haired, green-eyed stranger didn't seem to notice and kept right on trying to communicate with the Brit. 

"How long have you been playing?"

"Um, for eight years, actually. I picked up this skill in high school, and it's stuck with me for a while." even as the Brit said this, he silently cursed himself for talking so much —none of that was this guy's business! What was up with this guy anyway? Why did he  _care_  about such a detail? 

"Really? Me too. But I started when I was seventeen." 

Wait, wouldn't that make him about thirty? No —um, seventeen plus eight is.......um, damnit.... Wait, it's twenty-five.

Hello? Earth to Arthur? Why do you even  _care_  about his age? 

 _I-um........Shut it_!

"Do you play professionally?"

"No, actually, I don't. I'm a," wait what — _what_  was he thinking? He couldn't tell this guy that he worked as..... "a trash, clean-up, delivery guy for a restaurant." 

The man was shocked. "You? But you play so beautifully!"

"And I have a degree in music," Arthur added. "But life doesn't work that way. It just doesn't."

The man pouted. "I guess so," —what Arthur thought was: Damn his concerned-looking pout!  "But, if you ever want to play for money," he took out a piece of paper and a pencil from his pocket and scribbled some words on it. "Just call this number. Who knows? Maybe we can even play a song or two together, huh?"

"Thanks, and maybe," Arthur mumbled. 

He wanted to run —still, very clueless of why he hadn't run in the first place—  but he couldn't. Something was holding him back —by this time, he was pretty sure it was his need for the money he got from strangers passing-by, (though, it could very well be something else). 

The handsome man smiled at him. "Here. I hope this helps," the stranger took his wallet from his pants pocket and handing the Brit a couple of dollars —they were in twenties, mind you. "Good luck, and hopefully you'll be up on stage or something." 

Damn his niceness and cheerful attitude! Were the Brit's thoughts as the man walked onward, but what his mind made him say was: "Hey —thanks! By the way, my name's Arthur!"

"Antonio!" the stranger yelled back.

Though, now, he didn't seem as much as a stranger as before.

_ Why can't my twat of a brain ever shut up? _

As soon as Antonio was way out of sight, Arthur got up and ran for it, not wanting anymore encounters with people —he especially didn't want another one with that guy.

He went back to the apartment building he lived in, greeted the neighbors he knew, watched out for Heracles' cats (they had a tendency to trip people passing-by), ducked when a shoe came flying his way —Mathias and Gilbert really need to stop messing with Lukas and Bacsh (a cold-hearted  Norwegian and his violent Swiss roommate) one of these days, someone other than them are going to get hurt— and practically leaped to his door, quickly locating his key and heading inside (just in time) as something heavy slammed on his closed-door —he suspected it to be Mathias— while another person began cursing in German (Gilbert, or Bacsh, but he didn't know exactly at times). It made him glad that he wasn't out there, but the feeling ended with his alarm suddenly going off on his phone, telling him it was time to get ready head to work (he had to take the bus there, which would take quite a while). So, he picked an apple out the fruit bowl (given to him by his mother) took a bite into it and headed back outside the door, hoping the 'fighting' had calm down a bit.

He checked the time, and saw that he might need to head to the next bus stop, (since he missed the one closest to where he lived) and ran the five miles, making it just in time to be the last one on the bus. Hepaid his fare and headed towards the back, where he held on to one of the dangling straps (for all the seats were occupied) and caught his breath. Standing 'still' on the bus, he began to feel the cool air-conditioning on it, and he wondered why exactly did the bus have air-condition in the Fall. They weren't down south, they were up north. And up north, it got  _cold_  in the Fall. Very cold.

Reaching his stop, he was actually pretty glad to get off the bus, liking this cold much more than the one on the bus, since he'd be able to run this one-off (the restaurant was still a whole fifteen minutes from where he was presently), and wouldn't have to endure the cold to this degree until he finished his shift. He warmed himself up in no time while running, and made it to the restaurant in record time —ten minutes instead of fifteen, well including the fact that it was a bitterly freezing day— in which he promptly made his way towards the back of it, where he was very well about to open the door when someone on the inside opened it for him. Toris Laurinaitis —the other _trash, clean-up, delivery guy_  who had gotten off his shift as soon as Arthur showed up (and was grateful for it), and quickly passed the cleaning supplies over to the Brit, before saying a quick goodbye and heading off into the cold.

Arthur groaned lightly. This had better be a good day at work. It  _better_ . If it isn't, so help him  he'll-"

"Hi, Arthur," a cheerful voice greeted him. "Toris just left —so you're right on time. Come in, you must bereally cold just standing outside!"

At those words, Arthur smiled. The words belonged to Tino Väinämöinen —one of the waiters, that you could trust to feel genuine concern for you. "Yes, Tino." he replied, smiling rather merrily. He followed the blonde haired, violet eyed man inside to refreshing warmth mixed with delightful smells from so many countries one couldn't help feeling as if they were traveling all around the world in this kitchen —and that's how Arthur felt every time he was there. Still, he knew he couldn't linger there for long and immediately put himself up to his tasks —giving his best to diligence as much as he possibly could. 

 "Arthur," a heavy-accented voice (with a small dash of flirtation on it) called. "you are being welcomed on stage! Soak in the joys of it!"

Arthur snorted at the voice and its owner: Francis Bonnefoy. A charming, flirtatious Frenchman would wanted to join the theatre one day, and ' _rise up to the level of the stars in the sky'_ , the Frenchman once said. He always scoffed at such dramatic notions made by the Frenchman, but, knowing him for three years now —he would have to agree that the passionate chef had the talent to do so. But was stuck, like so many others in not being able to pursue his dream. Arthur knew that feeling well.

"Allo, Arthur, do not keep the audience waiting!" a voice rung in his ear, taking him from his detailed thought process. He had better get out there —to  _clean_. Unlike what Francis always said  about theatre, cleaning would very well only be cleaning to the Brit. As was doing his job—and when a person spilled a drink, or something of that sort, usually a waiter would come a 'clean it' while the costumers were there, but it was only afterwards, when everyone left that the real  _deep-dish cleaning_  would take place. Still, with this night unbelievable packed, and the waiters with their hands full, it was left up to Arthur who  _definitely_ didn't want to screw up on this day. It  _was_  payday. He would be damned if he fucked up today. So very damned. Not that he wouldn't get paid, but that the shifts would change and he would have to work the  _newcomers_ _shift_ , (someone almost everyone dreaded), which would mean a quarter or more of both Toris and Im Yong Soo's shifts being added on to his.

So  _no_  —screwing up wasn't an option tonight.       

"Go on, rosbif! It is your cue!" 

"Shut it, frog!" okay, now Francis  _was_  annoying. And when the Frenchman became that way, Arthur temporarily forgot it was payday. And, in only a few minutes, well very well ready to have a showdown —that is, for a few minutes.

"Arthur, Francis, please let us not argue today," said Mr. Honda: a small, serious, Japanese man who could be quite scary on various occasions —especially when one least expected it. This moment, was one of them (in which the Brit and Frenchman were startled).

"Yes, Honda," the small Japanese man always seemed to bring upon the Brit the sense of gentleman-like manners his mother had tried to enforce on him (that only seemed to appear at the most random times), and (in his own 'mannerly like' way) he muttered, "I'll go clean up the mess."

The black-haired man nodded approvingly, (to which the Frenchman watching the Brit snickered, bringing attention of himself as well. "And you,  _Bonnefoy_ , need to stop leaving the kitchen."  

"Oui, Monsieur Honda," the, silky, long blonde haired man gulped nervously and headed by into the kitchen, where his Italian co-worker was waiting for him. 

"Oh, Francis —you're back! I was wondering where you had gone!"

Francis raised an eyebrow at the younger man. What did the Italian think he was doing back here? "Feli? What are you-"

"See? I can cook, too!" Feliciano showed him a pot of heavenly goodness (made from scratch), much to the Frenchman's amazement.

"Where did you-"

"Try some, Francis," Feliciano put a spoonful of the meal in the older man's mouth. "Wait? What did you say?"

_The food was simply_   _amazing_!  _Mouth-watering_!  _A piece of art!_  "It is  _beautiful_ , mon ami!"

Feliciano smiled brightly. "You really think so?"

Francis smiled at him. "I  _know_  so, Feliciano." 

"Bonneyfoy, Vargas. What is it that you two are doing that is hindering you from your jobs?"

The two were startled at the Japanese's voice, and were nevertheless shame-faced and red when turning to face him. 

"Mi dispiace, Mr. Kiku!" Feliciano said, rushing from the kitchen, to do his job once more.  

Kiku sighed as Feliciano ran out his 'lecture' this time —he laughed remembering that Feliciano always did that— and Francis smiled.

"I-um......I-"

And Francis, (who had been cleared for a second, while the attention was on Feliciano) now put him back in a troubling place of being the only one left (out of him and Feliciano), and mentally cursed himself for doing so.

"You should go back to your work, Bonnefoy." the Japanese said, smiling  slightly.

Francis flushed lightly. "Oui—yes! I should!"

Kiku only nodded, amused, and left Francis to his job, while himself went back to what he was doing.

Meanwhile,  _on stage_ , as the Frenchman had said, Arthur tried to not make things awkward. 

Keyword:  _tried_.   

"Oh, sorry!" the young woman had said—looking every bit of sorry that one could be— when he came out and began cleaning the mess right away.

"That's okay." Arthur said (managed to say) politely, shooting her a reassuring smile. "We all.......um.......spill stuff sometimes, huh."

She smiled sweetly at him —which did  _not_  make him blush, right? Um.......right— and said in her heavily accented way, " _Danke_....... um-"

"Arthur." he replied, extending his hand to her. "The name's Arthur."

"I'm Lilly." she said, blushing the tiniest bit, and extending her own hand, she grasped his and they shook.

The conversation didn't go any farther than that, and awkwardness began to slice through the easiness that was in the beginning, and when Arthur finished he quickly took off back into the kitchen, not staying to hear the woman say hey —and as well slightly bumping into the woman's date: a rich-colored Cuban man, who looked very sharp in the clothing he had on. The fashionably dressed man glared at him for a split second, before turning towards his date with an expression that Arthur dared to think as  _gentle_ , or something of the endearing-sort. 

 _Maybe it was just going to be a not-so-delightful-evening-shift_ , he concurred inwardly, putting his trust into his daily analysis. Never mind it—he might as well make the best of it.  

Speaking of the situation at hand, while the Brit had retreated into his thoughts, the Cuban man had inquired of his beautiful, quiet date what had happened when he was in the restroom to which the blonde-haired, green-eyed women assured him that nothing whatsoever happened (calming down the heavy-set, very muscular man, to the Brit's relief).

When the Brit snapped himself back to the present moment, he went on with his 'light-cleaning', ignoring everything that wasn't about to cause him some embarrassment, while hoping on Heaven, Hell, and Earth that nothing would get worst that day.  _Nothing,_ he very well pleaded in his mind—until those  _words_  and that  _question_  popped out of nowhere. 

To his credit, he couldn't exactly say nowhere, but for them to randomly be said at this restaurant was—he'd daresay,  _odd_.

"Lilly, mi amour," the words started out, sparking the interest of those seated at tables near the Cuban man and his date. "Mi precioso fresa—I have something important to tell you."

She blushed. "Yes, Máximo?"

"Te amo Lilly. Con todo mi corazón, te quiero," at this he got on his knees in front of her, took out a ring from his pocket and cleverly avoided Arthur and the spot where the drink was spilled. "With this said, will you become mine and forever hold the keys to my heart? Lilly Vogel, will you marry me."

Tears of (what many suspected) joy were at the corner of her eyes and a big smile was forming on her mouth as she slowly begin to nod her head— _yes,_ was her answer. _Yes....._

Right there and then, Arthur was praying his hardest in his mind to get out of such a scene (without knocking over something along the way) as soon as possible. He faked an interested smile and told the happy, newly engaged couple congratulations, and took off—not literally, of course, but with enough self-control needed in such a time and place as this.

After making it back to the safety of the back of the building— _just to get a bit of fresh air_ , he told himself—he finally went ahead and asked himself a question he never wanted to hear, or even  _think_. 

_What was bloody wrong with him?_

Deep breaths, Arthur. Deep breaths. Calm down. Just..........calm down a bit. 

That's exactly what the Brit did—and, standing outside in the freezing evening hour brought out a feeling he had always tried to suppress:  _loneliness_.

However, before his mind dwell too deeply on the subject, he took one more deep breath, did his very best to subdue such thoughts and went back inside the welcoming "backstage" (once again, a saying of the Frenchman's), ready to face the rest of the evening.

The night was doing it's best to help Arthur, it seemed, as the restaurant was quite packed—much to the displeasure to some of the Brit's co-workers. This effectively helped Arthur forget about the unwanted feelings he had experienced earlier, and helped him focus on less stressing things. Such as..........

Well, at that thought, his mind drew blank—he dismissed the action and  _instead_  only did his job.

A lot later in the night, however, when the tides began to change, the crowded building was now empty in comparison and the deliveries weren't too bad—Arthur was still at work. During such an hour he couldn't help but let his mind wander (well, cleaning, delivering things and even more cleaning didn't take up to much mental energy), and as it wandered it stopped at earlier today with the image of that stranger's smile. 

_Antonio's_  smile (actually).

 _W-whatever!_  He told himself, blushing a bit.

Still, he might try to deny it with all his heart, but  _this guy_  (Antonio. he was reminded) was bothering him. Why was he so.........nice? Why was he interested in what he did and had said? Why —why was this guy getting to him? The things he did were normal things, nothing out-of-place. So, why was he so paranoid about this?

Okay,  _paranoid_  might be little too strong in this instance, but it meant almost the same thing. Why and what was happening to him? Why was it triggered(?) by that guy, and when will it stop?  

M-maybe he was over exaggerating. That guy.........he was only being normal—his actions were purely conceived from human kindness. Arthur just..........he just......just over-thought things. Yes, that was he. He over-thought things. Well, he needed to stop. How he was going to, was yet still another question—one that might take a long while to answer......

During this train of thought, he hadn't realized he stopped cleaning, but, someone else did (and, knowing Arthur for a long time, was puzzled by it). Because Arthur Kirkland did  _not_ 'day dream'.

Never.

"Allo? Rosbif? Are you okay?" a familiar voice filled his head, and he quickly put away all his thoughts and nonsense, then turned to face the culprit.

"Frog." he shot back, glaring at the calm (but a bit concerned) Frenchman.

"Are you okay? You've been dreaming —very unlike you, who always keeps to 'standing your guard against the innocent'.

" _You_  are _far_  from innocent, git," Arthur stated as a matter of factly. "And.....I'm fine. I just....was thinking about something that happened today."

"Oh? Tell it all to Big Brother Francis!"

"Big Brother? Really, Francis?"

"What's wrong with that?" Francis questioned, pretending to hurt by the comment.

"Plenty." Arthur snipped back, bracing to here a lecture from the frog. It never came and instead, Arthur found himself spared by the last delivery of the night.

The delivery system had a thick line between it to mark the pros and cons of itself. 

The pros were simple: Every delivery was within the area (though, that could only be obvious fact of law and nature), and gave Arthur—along with Toris and Im Yong Soo—an excuse to be outside, and it was good exercise.

The cons, however, were: You were using a bicycle as your transportation—not the best idea in the northeastern part of this country—in the summer it felt too hot to ride and in the winter it felt too cold, and your only GPS came from instructions printed out from MapQuest. It was not ideal, but it worked  _well_ , actually. Hopefully it would work well enough for the restaurant to afford a car one day. 

The current address Arthur had on the directions was not too far from the park he usually went to—it was about a ten-mile walk, he estimated in his head. A nice neighbor was the one he found himself peddling through—he felt as if he didn't belong in this picture.

When he reached his destination, the Brit took a deep breath, parked the bike, and carefully untied the food from the box-basket thing—he really had  _no_  clue what it was. Only that it also  _worked well_. With the food in his hands, he walked up to the house and rung the bell.

 _Oh, the joys of work._  He thought, sarcastically. Well, at least he didn't have to have a lecture from Francis.  _Good heavens_.  _That_ , he was sure, was purely invented to torture him. 

A minute after standing in front of the decent-sized house, the door opened, revealing a man with an olive complexion and dark brown hair. His eyes were a sort of hazel and he was scowling—for what reason, Arthur had no idea. It couldn't be because of him. He didn't take too long to arrive at this man's address. He was riding a  _damn_  bicycle for goodness' sake.

Oh, wait—where was he again? Ah, right; doing his job.....

"Um, hello." 

"Who the hell are you?"

"U-um, u-uh, you ordered something from the World Meeting restaurant?" he asked nervously.

"Yes I did, actually—do you have it?" 

 _Wow, that was rude_ —that was what Arthur thought. What he said was, "Yes." and gave the food to the strange man—who he just noticed, had some sort of strange curl on the side of his head. Oh well, it really wasn't any if Arthur's business anyway, was it.

The man muttered a 'thank you' and in a demanding voice, called out to someone inside the house. "Oi, bastard—the food is here. We need to pay this guy."

"I'm coming, Lovi..." a familiar voice said in the background. The voice sounded an awful-lot like........

"How much is it, señor-"

_Antonio?_

Holy shit. Holy shit. Just.......holy fucking shit!

"Arthur?"

"Er, yes—that's me,"  _way to sound weird_ , Arthur mentally scolded himself. "You're Antonio, right?"

"You guys know each other?" 

The man known as "Lovi" had his question go unanswered as the two older men were quite taken in their 'conversation'. One eager about it, and the other......... _not so eager_. 

"Sí, that's me! I am so surprised to see you here! I didn't know you worked at The World Meeting restaurant."

"W-well, I didn't know you ordered food from there until now." 

"We usually get our food early," Lovi explained. "From this guy named Toris, but tomate bastardo here, was  _too_  busy."

The Spaniard pouted. "Oh, Lovi! You're still on that?" 

The man called Lovi only snorted. "I'm you cousin—making your life miserable  _is_  my job."

At that, Arthur almost let a snicker out, but quickly thought against it. He was still on the job. 

"That'll be eighteen-ninety-five, sirs."

He took the money out his pocket and held it out for the Brit. "Here—and you can just call me, Toni,y'know."

"Okay," Arthur said, a blush threatening to flood his face at the easygoing attitude and warm smiles Antonio kept shooting at him. "I'm still just called Arthur. Though my brothers always called me 'Iggybrows'," the name felt bitter on his tongue.

"Iggybrows? Why would they do that?"

"B-because, because,"  _wait_. Why was he even telling this guy this stuff? He didn't need to know any of his business! "I have really.......really big  _eyebrows_  and they liked to tease me.....by calling me.......Iggy."

It was then that Antonio looked up and noticed the Brit rather large eyebrows, (though, he smiled at them). "I think they're cute." he said, much to Arthur's surprise.

What Arthur wanted to say was:  _What the fuck!_   What he actually said was far from it. "Y-you really think so?"

"Yes."

"Bastard, what is going on?" the Spaniard's cousin questioned. He was confused. Were they dating or something? And most importantly, why would Antonio think those giant  _monsters_  were  _cute?_

Once again, Lovi's question got ignored—the younger of the two didn't mind, since this gave him a chance to focus on one of his many hobbies:  _Being Nosy_.

Arthur felt a blush creeping up to his face. Oh, hell no. That stupid, gorgeous smile of that stupid, gorgeous guy. Why? Why did it have to plague him? Why him in the first place? Huh? Was this some type of cruel joke from Fate or something of that sort? Never mind his predicament—he would just have to fight back. "S-stop bloody smiling like that!"

"Why? What's wrong with me smiling?"

"B-because you're smiling is so damn........fucking charming," realization hit the Brit as soon as the words left his mouth.  _Oh, shite._  "Uh, enjoy the food....." 

And the flustered Brit took off on the bicycle, peddling as fast as he could, leaving a smiling Spaniard and the said Spaniard's confused cousin to their own thoughts. After a minute or so, it was the Spaniard's cousin who finally shut the door. "Okay bastard, you better tell me what's going on, or I'm filing a compliant to the restaurant......." 

Antonio felt a blush creep up onto his skin. Arthur thought he was charming! The Brit thought he was charming. He liked his smile.

And, one can be safe saying, that made Antonio smile.

_ Huh? Lovi? Filing a compliant? What? _   "Wait, Lovi! Wait! I'll tell you! Don't file a compliant! Lovi!" 

At about the same time, Arthur was doing his best not to drive recklessly on the road, while also trying to get as far away from the Spaniard's house as possible. Sure, it wasn't exactly  _safe_  to do this on a bike, but he didn't give a damn momentarily. 

He was such a moron.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

How could he have said that? Why? Why did he fucking say that? And why did that damn attractive man have to call his eyebrows cute? Wait.......attractive? No! No, he did  _not_  say that. Definitely not!  

Whatever the case was, it wasn't until Arthur got home—which just so happened to be a quarter-past midnight—tired and calmed-down, that he took a few deep breaths, drunk two whole bottles of water and unceremoniously plopped himself on his bed, hoping his mind would only  _relax_. It didn't. Not even when Arthur took a shower, brushed his teeth, took a piss and made his way back into bed. 

Maybe this was payback for insulting Fate.

Whatever it was, Arthur wished it would let him have some bloody sleep. However, by the pounding of his brain, the wish seemed less and less possible by the second.

Oh, bloody hell......

Why him?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys —so what did you think? Personally, I had _lots of fun_ writing Boss!Kiku —how many times have you seen Kiku as the "no-nonsense boss" who everyone happens to respect sooner of later (but they _will_ respect), hmm?
> 
> I also enjoyed writing Francis and Lovi! They are so awesome, and just make the harden cracks between people, _harder or easier..._
> 
> I'm also not so satisfied this the name The World Meeting (restaurant), so if anyone has suggestions, let me know!
> 
> Merry _after_ Christmas, everyone!


	2. Aside

Surprisingly enough, the insomnia that Arthur experienced didn't effect him too much—he actually went to sleep after a half an hour of fretful shifting in his bed. The next morning, or more fittingly, four hours later, he awoke, blinking up at the ceiling, thoughts hazy and voice muted.

Just the way he wished every morning would be like.

He took care of all the basics he had to do every morning, and he found himself out the door of his apartment, his 'sack' loosely hanging vertically from his shoulder and across his chest and his soft, woolly hat on his head covering his messy hair. He made his way down the hall towards the stairs, when he heard a couple of mewls. He looked down in front of him and saw that six out of—he hadn't the slightest clue how many cats Heracles had. Only that it was a lot more than twenty.

The cats looked up at him and seemed to smile brightly at the Brit.

"G'morning to you all as well." Arthur said, amused. At his words, the cats mewled even more and began to nuzzle his legs. He chuckled at this act of affection. Heracles' cats truly were the kindest animals Arthur had ever met. They were actually kinder than most people he knew. If only the humans in question could be as kind as those cats. However, he supposed wishing for them to behave in a similar way might be asking for too much. They were cats, while humans were.........human. Either way, he told himself. It gave people no excuse to treat him like shit.

Arthur dismissed the thought and resumed his walk towards the stairs, turning back only to wave goodbye to Heracles' pets. As he walked down the stairs, he could hear the felines meowing in response as if they were saying goodbye to him as well. He smiled at the thought, and almost decided to change his mind and stay there playing with the felines for a couple more minutes—he didn't; remembering that he had errands to accomplish today. Might as well not waste the day away.

Once outside the building, the twenty-three year old soaked in the autumn scenery—now covered with a more snow than the frost of last night could have come up with. Perhaps it snowed a bit after he went home yesterday. He wouldn't ponder on it too much, and instead focused on heading towards the right (the very opposite direction of the World Meeting restaurant), walking on the old sidewalk he had seen almost everyday for the past four years. It still looked brand-new to him, though.

He kept heading eastward, only going slightly northeast when he had to. When he spotted Rowling St. he inhaled the chilly air and closed his eyes for a split second. This street, he knew better than the lines on the palms of his hands—and it was this street where most of his errands were about to be done. 

Once most of the said errands were completed, Arthur decided to treat himself with a small glimpse of treasures he would never call his own. He was nearing the end Rowling St. from the east end, and about five minutes worth of walking later, he took a sharp left onto Stewart Homer Mill Pkwy, heading towards the opening of the decent sized store-landing-strip. 

 He felt rather giddy as he walked. He hadn't been to Omar's Music Grotto in a long while—not that he could do anything there in terms of purchasing. This would be a refreshing change from his daily routine. That, and he could go over his rather pitiful wishlist. 

Pitiful, meaning, he's had it for a couple of years now—the wishlist existed even before he moved out of his parents' place. It was created, he guessed as he checked his hazy memories, when he was about sixteen, courtesy of his late grandfather Oliver, who gave him a place in the passionate world of music.

Before he could become too engrossed in his thoughts he heard a bell chime and realized he was at the entrance of Omar's. He walked in, greeted to a temperature a little warmer than the bitter cold of outside and a melancholy masterpiece of a song by none only but The Shins. 

This was one of the reasons he liked Omar's—it was odd. It was not as well-known as Guitar Center, but it was quite efficient and quirky, as he'd put it. Walking around idly, he hadn't wandered in the store that long when he felt a tap on the shoulder. What followed the tap was a snicker the Brit would know anywhere. 

"Gilbert." he said outright, his words sounding more like a playful statement than his usual questioning demeanor often allowed. 

"Yes Art, it is the awesome me," the twenty-seven year old smirked. "What brings you here today? Finally going to buy something?"

"And what gave you that impression?" he teased. 

"Because we have families and broke-friends to feed," another voice buts in. 

"Exactly," Gilbert agreed, shifting a bit to the right to place his hand on his fellow co-worker's shoulder. "I thing my awesomeness is rubbing off on you, 'soka."

The Indian man faked an indignant look. "Your awesomeness? I never knew you had any."

"Okay—this is _not_ awesome, you two. You and Art gaining up on me," he gave the other two a small pout. "Awesome little me." 

"You're not very small, Gilbert."

"That offend my awesomeness, 'soka. Why would you.........."

While Gilbert and his co-worker went up to bat, Arthur drowned them out and left the scene, favoring to look at the amps instead. This type of item in particular, was on his wishlist. However, he wasn't in the category of being very optimistic about saving up for it. Sure, he did have a giant container that used to hold cheese-balls, and  _sure_ it was halfway filled with coins, dollars, British and European currency, but, he knew it wasn't enough. Well, that it probably wasn't enough—he hadn't exactly checked how much money was in the jar for a long while, and for all he knew, he might as well have the right amount. Still, there wasn't any use in getting his hopes up—he could definitely be wrong. Assuming never really got anyone anywhere, did it?

His ears absentmindedly let in sound again and he was able to catch the beautiful ballad of song that was _How Soon Is Now_  (by none other than The Smiths).  As his heart took a quick listen alongside his ears, his mind and its depressingly dodgy ways somehow found a way to connect the powerful message within the lyrics to his own cruddy life—to which he inwardly told his brain to _'fuck itself'_ —accomplishing nothing but the oh-so-significant action of staring at a wall of amplifiers for four minutes.

_Oh, bollocks, he has so many fucking issues, doesn't he?_

Whether or not the question could be answered, Arthur promptly shut the thoughts out his mind and headed out the store—he didn't want any other nonsense to show up unexpectedly; he'd be damned if it did, and he knew Morrissey would probably have plenty to say on the subject if he stayed.

 _Damn good lyrics...........stop influencing his lifestyle_.

He sighed hopelessly into the cold air—why couldn't things ever get better for him? Ever. A truthful answer would be that the answer he demand was _not available_. He didn't care though. Since when did he take a simple _no_ and be done with it? he really couldn't remember the last time in his life that was possible.

He jerked himself from the thoughts he had been so engrossed in. _What was he supposed to be doing again?_  

Ah yes, that's right. There was one more errand to go— _off to the corner store_. he chimed in strange relief. 

Sometimes he wondered—would his life be even worse if he was a woman? With all these odd mood swings............. _._

Now, he didn't want to _know_.

He shook his head, trying in vain to clear it as he walked onward, towards the little corner store that had been there longer than anything else he had seen on Rowling St. (besides the apartment building he lived in).

 _Rosewood's_ was actually a very convenient store for him; it being closer to where he lived than anything else on this rather stretched-out street. It was owned by a plump old woman named Mabel and her two grandsons, Jacob and Eros. He could almost say they were like family for him—then he'd remember his own family and promptly dismiss the thought. The older woman always gave him a warm welcome every time he entered the store, and her two energetic grandsons were pleasant company as well; somewhat.

The nice, inviting atmosphere of his thoughts was there when he walked inside the store (which was rather warm and toasty), and in return, he decided to be on his best behavior—besides tripping over a small box, _he_ believed he did a good job in behaving— and soon enough, he breezed his way through the store, grabbing the apples he loved so dearly (whether or not they were rather heavy on his wallet. He'd be damned if he just gave up those Granny Smith apples without a fight), paying for them and making his way outside once more. He headed towards the park, (right after he safely tucked the apples away in his flat and grabbed his guitar, that is), vigor oddly in the Brit's steps. There wasn't anything to get excited over. Especially at the park. Not that he knew of. 

How much more of a terrible liar could he get? 

Yes, he knew. He practically hoped for Antonio—he bites back a grin at the mention of the beautiful man's name—to be there. Maybe he would. _Maybe_. 

While there, he sat at on his usual bench (no, he wasn't going to take back that possessive _his_. No one else used the bench, so it was as if he pretty much owned it) and denied to himself that his eyes were shifting around looking for the emerald-eyed man. He wasn't. Really, he wasn't.

_Again, with that lying of his......_

He sat up a bit straighter. Was that his stranger?

Wait, _his_ stranger?  No, he meant,  _the_ stranger. Yes, exactly; the stranger. That in no way whatsoever belonged to him. 

He squinted his eyes at the person, trying to make out more description, but in the end, found himself disappointed that the said person roaming around that park, wasn't Antonio. But, why did it matter if the Brit was disappointed about such a fact? It wasn't as if he was attracted to-

Yes he was.

He couldn't even try to fucking lie—yes, he was very attracted to Antonio. Yes, he wished he could see him again. And yes, he wanted to spend a good long while listening to the charming man playing the guitar—scratch that. He wanted to play his guitar alongside the tanned man.

He groaned inwardly at his thoughts. Confessions always made him feel shitty. This one in particular was more embarrassing if anything, and rather akin to a certain song by The Doors (a sign that wasn't exactly the best choice to start off a relationship of any kind). 

He pushed his thoughts away and began to play away on his guitar, drawing out some of his favorites such as _Disorder_ , _There Is A Light That Will Never Go Out_ , and _A Forest,_ but actively trying out new things he'd look up on the internet when he had the time. This occupied him greatly as he waited for the other guitarist to show up out of thin air and mess up his concentration and flash that sweet smile as he did the other day. The only problem was, he didn't show.  

But Arthur didn't care. Exactly. Why would he let one small detail ruin his day? No. Not on his life would he do that. _He was perfectly.............._

_Where was he? Didn't he come to this park before? He wasn't dreaming about it, was it? It couldn't have—oh, just bloody shut the hell up!_

H-he.......he didn't care. Really, he didn't. He didn't even know the Spaniard, so how much more could he expect the stranger to show up, right? Exactly. He didn't know what he was thinking.........

Arthur took a deep breath, and doing his best to control his horridly strong emotions, the Brit stood up and scanned the area once more, ending up with the very same results—no Antonio in sight. Only a few minutes after; confused, disappointed, mentally drained, and even a bit sorrowful, Arthur returned to his comfort-filled living space and refused to go out for the whole day—at least until it was time for work. When that certain time arrived, he figuratively dragged himself outside his apartment, and practically groaned in his head all the way to work. Not everything panned out bad for him that evening. First off, while trying to catch the bus, he saw Mathias and they had a rather small chat, in which Arthur was invited for Unhinged Drinking Night—he actually agreed, for no reason in particular, though—  afterward, he found that the bus driver had put on the heat, and that Francis wasn't as nearly as annoying today, making things all the more better, he supposed. 

Yes,  _he supposed_. He couldn't say it was absolutely better—unless he wanted to lie to himself, that is—with a certain something on his mind.

_How come that stupidly-handsome stranger wasn't at the park that day?_

There he went again—why did this always happen? Why couldn't he safely bury any memories down? Why? It didn't matter anyways now, since—he couldn't _stop_ thinking about the Spaniard for that whole time. 

++

When he arrived home and closed his door, he felt a wave of mental-exhaustion crash upon him. The most prominent reason being, of course, that attractive stranger from the park, _Antonio_.

Oh, fuck. He was infatuated with this man, wasn't he? If so, why wouldn't this feeling go the fuck away already? 

He groaned as he laid his back down on the couch and let his feet dangle off it; now not even pretending to read and keep interest in Watership Down. Sure, he loved Richard Adams' masterpiece with all his soul but it seemed that Fate was playing a game of Cat and Mouse, and at the moment, it was considerably trying to keep up his endurance in this type of situation. He couldn't forfeit anything now, of course—it had only been two short days, for heaven's sake. He hadn't any clue of who Antonio really was, so there was not too much rush in determining whether or not it was anything. These feelings and actions could very well exist because of stress, or headaches or-

_Bzzzt. Bzzzt._

The Brit, although a bit shocked he was interrupted, rushed to find his phone, which led him to checking the table in front of the couch—the exact location of the object. He shifted his body in an upright position, (so he was sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the couch), and reached for his phone, carelessly not checking who it was—the person _did_ just interrupt his alone time —but instead promptly answering it. 

"Who is this?"  


"Oh? Who is this, _hmmph_ ," the person had a strong accent, though somehow the Brit couldn't identify who it was. "I was only trying to do a kind gesture and you do not think to remember me? You really are a rude, suborn, lazy-"

His mind drowned out the noise and slowly put together the puzzle of the mysterious caller—realization and a small, muttered-out curse being a large role in it being solved.

" _Francis?_ Francis, what the hell are you doing? Why are you calling so late? Why are you calling _me_ , of all people at this hour?"

"I," he started out (clearly still slightly offended at the Brit's 'greeting'), "wanted to know if you wanted some advice from yours truly. Big Brother Francis is always ready to help a person in need— _even_ you and your disrespectful self, Arthur." 

Arthur glared at the wall, picturing that it was Francis, and answered the Frenchman in an annoyed tone, "No, Francis. I don't bloody want your help. Go find some other gossip material," he added for extra measure, "and leave me be." 

He could almost see Francis rolling his eyes and huffing at his response. "Yes, Arthur, keep up your behavior of being rude to people who want to help you. In the end, if you do happen to come crying to Big Brother, I might still consider helping you, because I happen to be a patient and caring big brother."

"Whatever, you frog—bug off," he then promptly shut off his phone, not wanting to go back and forth with the Frenchman any longer. 

Ugh......he needed some whiskey. Or some bitter beer. He didn't really give a damn—only that he got an alcoholic beverage, and got one fast. However, he would be lying to himself if he thought he would get one right away. No. There was no way he was going to go anywhere at this late hour—there was no way he was going to get off this couch, for that matter. These thoughts in his mind, he undid his pants, kicked them off and laid back down on his couch. Shirt be damned, cleanliness be damned, comfortable bed be damned as well. He wasn't moving from that stop until it was time to wake up and he meant it. The only problem was—his waking time was in three hours or a bit less.

Fuck his life. 


	3. Watermark

On Sunday morning, Antonio had awoken rather late in the day (later than what was usual for him, anyway). When his eyes opened, he sat up, shook the sleepiness off of him and automatically smiled in the morning. _There was no better way to start a day than to greet the morning_ , he believed. And by doing so, he could gladly say he was setting up the day to be a great one. His thoughts continued in a positive direction until they came to a sudden halt after he had gotten out of bed. The reason being, he had stubbed his toe on the side of the bed. He hopped about a bit, until the pain subsided and carried on with his optimistic inner monologue. Today was to be a great day—and hopefully one more exciting than yesterday. 

He almost laughed aloud. _Yes, Antonio_ , he thought to himself. _Yesterday was only boring because you didn't see that Arthur_.

Ah, Arthur.

The Spaniard's thoughts drifted to the first time he had seen the talented, 'radioactive' man. How he had been in deep concentration and practically ignored everyone around him, entering the true state of a guitarist's bliss. 

 _And_ , he smiled. _He, had to go mess it up_.

He was sorry for it. He truly was, but Arthur's playing just _drew_ him near—enough so that the hot-tempered man felt as if someone was intruding in his personal space, apparently. The stranger on the bench was an excellent guitarist, and for that (as well as the fact that Arthur's personally and good looks made the man even more appealing), he didn't want the acid-green eyed man to be a stranger any more. And how he was to accomplish that, he didn't have one clue. He only hoped he'd come across some along this shaky journey called His Life.

 _Ah, life_. He thought to himself as he tried to recall where he placed his contacts—and if not those, then, at least his glasses. Eventually he found his glasses sprawled out on the other side of his bed and put them on; smiling happily in his mind, quite satisfied that he managed to complete such a task with ease. He made his way back to the other side of the bed and reached for his guitar—the one he conveniently placed right next to his bedside, which took up a space that commonly belonged to a nightstand or some sort—an invigorating feeling washing over him. All because of music. Yes, opulent music that couldn't help but speak the sweetest melodies to your soul, warming your insides from the top of your head to your wee toes. Music for him was inextricable—it pretty much dominated a big portion of his life. And for that, he loved it.

So, to say he reached a point of euphoria whilst playing away an acoustic version of All We Ever Wanted Was Everything on his guitar would be somewhat of an understatement—if, that, was somewhat allowed in the gist of all things applying to the English language. No, he was............well, he couldn't explain without taking away much greatness from it, but in an attempt to make a small summary of what it might feel like, one might summarize the experience as a cross between going to Heaven and getting high. 

Antonio laughed quietly at his thoughts—there was practically no sense in them one could easily spot. Not even himself— _apparently_.

The attention he gave his thoughts lessened as he gently put his guitar back, and left the decent sized room he called his "Iron Bridge", making a straight beeline towards the bathroom, turning on the light and locking it once he entered. Blissfully ignoring most of his surroundings, he began to strip, shedding his shirt first, then his ridiculously much-too-large, patched-up pants, leaving himself a stark silhouette throughout the rather bright room—yes, he did not wear any undergarments to bed. _Why_ he didn't, was a true mystery, even to his dearest family—whilst he gingerly placed his glasses on the left-hand corner of the sink, walked to the shower and turned it on, jumping in immediately, a nonchalant feeling painted on him as slightly freezing water touched his skin and began to cleanse it from dirt, sweat, soap and other nonsense that somehow found a way to spew itself on to the young adult.

When the young man adjudged himself to be clean, he stepped out the shower and on to the rug neatly placed in front of it, somewhat 'drying' off his feet, and turning slightly to the right hand, reaching for any random towel that happened to be on the towel rack. As he dried himself off, he began to hum softly to one of his favorite Misfits songs, the cheery music bringing him to a level of cheerfulness higher than the one he had already achieved by some means.

He could only feel his reaction to this newly discovered joy would to grin widely. And so, he did; wrapping the random towel around his waist,  grabbing his glasses, and heading back to his room—this time however, not without a few "distracting", namely his cousins and his brother,  Lovino, Feliciano and João, who greeted him with a somehow _kind_ gesture mixed with somewhat _kind_ words. He didn't let these actions penetrate his loving optimism for the day, but instead, allowed them to increase it. Since he had a feeling. Yes, a feeling. That he'd see that fiery acid-green-eyed guitarist again.

Back in his "Iron Bridge", he dressed quickly and exited his room—after giving up the search of his contacts in vain—ignoring the bickering coming from the room next to his as he walked through the empty hallway, heading down a decent-sized amount of stairs to his destination—the kitchen.

Once downstairs, he inhaled deeply and smelt an ever-so-pleasant smell that could only come from the kitchen. it made his mouth water slightly, and with high hopes for whatever laid in the kitchenette, he casual strolled into the said room, greeted to the sight of his grandfather, his brother, João and strawberry crepes.

" _Buenos d_ _í_ _as_ ," he greeted cheerfully in his own language, taking a seat in the bar-stool next to his brother's. The two older men answered in their languages, and soon the three began to chat away in a combination of English and their native tongues—Spanish, Portuguese and Latin.

That was, until João put an end to it. 

"Vovô, why do you keep crawling back to Latin? No one commonly speaks it anymore. Why don't you use the  _updated version_ , people call Italian, or better yet, why don't you use Portuguese?"

The oldest of the three men gave his grandson a skeptical look as a partial reply to his remark. "Why? Why? _Chrrgg_ ," he sighed dramatically. "Your question is just to me is like asking outdated rockers to retire! Latin is my whole life, João. I cannot throw it away as one would a withering flower."

 The responses that came from his two eldest grandsons happened simultaneously—Antonio laughed and João sighed. This brought a smile to their grandfather's face, and it was then when the subject was dropped, the three sticking to speaking in English. 

Eventually, Antonio and João's cousins came down ( _rather nosily_ , the older brother thought to himself) bickering throughout the way.  They ceased their argument as they entered the kitchen, though, the shorter of the two still looked rather cross whilst the taller young man seemed to become more joyous by the second. 

"Good morning!" the younger Italian chirped happily, to which he was given two replies and one nod. 

"No one said the morning was _'good'._ " the older Italian pointed out, plopping himself next to Antonio.

"Oh, but Lovi! The morning is always nice!"

"No, it _ain't,"_   Lovino opposed, annoyed. "And don't call me Lovi."

"But, Lovi-"

" _Shut up_ , bastard. I told you not to call me that." the irritated man practically spat out his words. His cursing, of course, caught the attention of the rest of the family members in the room, and he was quickly told to "keep his language clean."

Lovino disagreed grumpily to this at first but let the subject drop when a plate of strawberry crepes was placed in front of him. Soon, all four men were eating as their grandfather washed the dishes, pleased that they enjoyed the food he prepared. When stomachs became full, teeth were cleaned and the kitchenette was cleaned, Antonio resisted joining into the conversation that was presently going on in the living room, instead, he slipped on his cropped-wool-peacoat and canvas sneakers, grabbed his wallet, and headed towards the front door only to be stopped halfway through his mission by his family. 

"Where are you heading?"

"Oh, me? I thought it would be nice to go outside; maybe walk around the park, or see my bandmates—they're probably sleeping, though." Antonio told them nonchalantly. Technically, he was telling only one half of the whole truth—the other being his desire to see a certain dirty-blonde haired guitarist—but they needn't know that. Not at all.

"I hope you have fun!" Feliciano said, smiling cheerfully at the Spaniard. 

"Bye, bastard," Lovino said,  "Don't get mugged."

João nodded in his younger brother's direction, and their grandfather smiled. Antonio did nothing in response to their reactions, his mind, wandering someplace only he knew about. This daze happened to sustain itself, even after Antonio opened the front door and left—leaving his family to pick up on whatever conversation they had prior to the current moment's.

"Lovi, that wasn't nice to say that to Antonio." 

 _Or_ , apparently, they could start anew.

"Fratello, do I seem a fucking nice person to you?" 

"No."

"Exactly," Lovino said, smirking victoriously.

Antonio didn't hear a single word of this, of course, for he was already up the street,  half in his dreamer's state and half watching his surroundings—today was  _not_ a day to die accidenly—especially since he had a mental checklist of things to do. He completed all of those menial tasks, and ended up spending most of the rest of the day at Jack and Eduard's, trying in vain to come up with new material for their band.

He and Jack had been best friends ever since they met in front of an old antique shop that happened to be going out of business. They were mere children back then, with no foreknowledge of what messing with thrown-out instruments would do for them in the long run—however, it wasn't as if they cared if such a thing was possible, as the two focused on on the moment more than anything as children. About a year later, while in a bookstore on a humid day in August, the two met Eduard whizzing through the music section and soon after the three officially became an inseparable trio. Though, it was long while until the three became serious about learning music. Once they did, however, everything just clicked. it no longer mattered that Eduard adored 60's Girl Pop and Jack could practically name every single Kompa song the Caribbean had to offer—and he, himself, having an unwavering love for Gothic Rock—trio had somehow merged into a musical whole.

As nice as it was for him to reminisce on such pleasant memories, he couldn't complain too much when his thoughts pushed them away and instead brought him back to the reality of things, where, after a while, the trio took a break from brainstorming; Eduard resuming to type up a document on the shared laptop, Jack turning his phone back on to watch Psych and Antonio putting in his headphones, turning on his ancient media player—something he _might_ have left in his coat pocket and forgotten about—and listened to whatever song he left off last. Soon, enough, the three even tired of doing their current activities, and picked back up on practicing again—these actions turning into a cycle that lasted until Antonio eyed the time on the microwave. The household appliance revealed to him that it was almost eleven p.m., to his amazement. 

"Shit," he swore quietly. It didn't help him that much, as both his bandmates heard him pretty clearly. 

"What's wrong?" Eduard asked, perplexed at his swearing. 

He smiled wryly. "Nothing."

"Why did you curse, then?" Jack questioned, his tone holding a bit of humor. 

"It's eleven."

"Really?" his friends said in unison.

"Yes, look at the microwave."

Jack looked at the appliance and nodded. "I s'pose it is, Toni."

"Did you have somewhere to go?" Eduard asked. 

"No, not at this hour" Antonio answered truthfully. "I just thought I'd pick something up from the store for you guys, that's all."

"Toni, are you sure you aren't some kind elderly lady in disguise?" Jack joked.

Antonio smiled at his friend's humorous mood. "You would be miserable if I was.

"Yes, I would, actually." the Aussie answered, his tone laced with mellow laughter. 

The Spaniard got up from the spot on the old, worn-out couch he was sitting on, quickly slipping on his shoes and peacoat. Once back in his perfectly-chanced outward-attire, he left the living room and made his way to the front door, pausing his mission to put together a mental grocery list for himself. 

"Hey, Toni," Jack called out from the living room. "if you're not messing with us, you wouldn't mind going to the store an' getting some Kombucha would you?"

"Kombucha?"

"It's substitute alcohol, I believe," Eduard told him. Antonio nodded inwardly, and making sure his wallet was in his coat, left the cozy habitation and headed to the store. Once outside the welcoming dwelling, however, he felt the sheer wrath of October's frosty weather; snow falling around him while the wind blew itself hoarse onto his body. Walking through such a situation made Antonio long to be back indoors—if not that, than at least somewhere warm. 

His wish came true only after he endured twenty cruel minutes outside, running with all his might whilst his eyes scanned for a store that still happened to be open. A long, grueling search came into play, but Antonio somehow gathered up the patience to persevere in such a cold temperature and managed with unlikely luck, to locate a store that had not retired for the night. In the said store, it wasn't very warm—in fact, he wondered if he was just imagining the 'warmth' in the building—but he chose not to dwell on that fact too much, instead, he hunted the items he sent there for, and soon he was out the door; once again out in the merciless cold. This time, however, his tolerance for the cold had built up since he had left Jack and Eduard's, and throughout most of the way back he walked on in ease. 

This all changed when he found himself back on Silverstein St. where the wind happened to be brutal. It was then and there that he kept running, wanting to do anything to at shake off the gelid takeover his body was experiencing. His actions were in vain, however, and he felt almost the same exact temperature when he stopped. With this testimony being the supposed sound reasoning, he slowed himself down so that he was at a sort of moderate walking pace, his breathing still sharp and his body still shivering with all its might, but without the adrenaline he had earlier. This process tired him a bit, as he was still not too near his destination yet to celebrate, but instead was still in the middle of this frigid-feeling journey. Only moments after, did notions to crash completely at his friends' house came to his mind. However, energy was quickly jolted back into his senses when he spotted a peculiar sight:

There, in the knitted green sweater, and fuzzy-looking beanie hat was Arthur—the interesting, complex, strangely charming, guitarist he had met only a few days ago. He was right there—he was really there! On the very same street as Antonio!

The said Spaniard smiled at his own thoughts. He was going on like a energetic child again, wasn't he?

The rather obvious question was left unanswered as he made his way down the sidewalk towards the unsuspecting guitarist, positively giddy with the aspect of talking to this truly intriguing man. Even as he drew near, the man seemed to not notice him, being much to absorbed with fumbling with something— _something_ , meaning the object was hidden from Antonio's view—that Antonio had too smiled. 

_That was definitely cute!_

_Or, there was something wrong with the way he thought._

_No, Arthur concentrating was positively adorable._

However much he loved the said sight, he knew if he was to have any part of his wish fulfilled he would have too interrupt this fascinating sight.

"Cold?" Antonio asked good-naturedly. 

The blonde promptly turned around at his voice, his green eyes flashing with confusion, then recognition—with a slight tint of happiness in the mix? "That's the only reason I'd be wearing this cable-knit-crew-neck- _something_ -sweater, that one of my friends gave me."

"Not because you're a kind person?" Antonio asked playfully. 

"No," Arthur answered, grinning at the emerald-eyed man. "Who told you that?"

"No one. I only guessed that much, from the way you've treated me."

"Lies. All slander and lies," the Brit said, laughter on the tip of his tongue.

Antonio's eyebrows were cocked up in amusement. "Oh, really?"

The Brit's face became solemn. "Yes."

A moment later, the two were reduced to shit-eating grins and slightly immature snickers. When their laughter had died down, they continued to engage in conversation, tossing out a few more humourous lines here and there, until reality felt entitled to send Antonio's mind a note relating to his former quest, much to his immediate disappointment. 

"I-it's getting late, and I've got to go........."

"Well, yes—I better leave, too," Arthur said hiding his eyes rather downcast expression. "Work tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after....."

"How about Thursday?"

"What?"

 "Thursday—are you free, by any chance?"

"Maybe," Arthur answered, a bit apprehensive. "Why?"

"I, well—I was wonder if you'd want to.......hang out or something?"

"Hang out?"

"Yes."

"It won't be bad—I promise!" Antonio blurted out suddenly, regretting the action instantly. 

Oh, how the reaction was such a different story for Arthur. 

That was Arthur's breaking point. This guy, he......he was trying really hard to convince Arthur to join him. He was being sincere about it as well. No one had ever tried to persuade him to hang out with them so desperately or so kindly. _But, this guy....._

"Fine," the Brit said, giving in to the Spaniard's plead. "Thursday. I'll come on Thursday, alright?"

Antonio's face sincerely lit up as if it belonged to a child at Christmastime. 

Afterward, both left the pretty-much-glacial street, a warming happiness filling previously unknown, empty voids as each made their way to their separate destinations.

 +++

When Antonio happened to switch his mind back to reality, he found a line of people waiting for him with a boatload of questions in their hands. 

First, with his family—whom he forgot to call. When he did, he found a wailing, panicky Feliciano, a pissed out Lovino, and an amused João. He explained to them that he lost track of the time—"Yeah right, bastard," was Lovino's reply—and that he'd most likely crash at his friends' place anyway. Feliciano didn't take this to well; Lovino scoffed a bit at his decision, but João seemed calm and understanding the whole time—even when he teased him at the very last moment—much to Antonio's relief.

Next, he informed his friends as to why he was late—did they have no clue on how cold it truly was outside—then, to answer their other question, told them that he was going to spend the night at their place.

"Not if you don't cook dinner first," Jack said teasingly. At the same time, he wasn't teasing. He really meant for Antonio to go and make some magical meal in the kitchen, even at the late time of half-past-twelve—which the brown-haired man did; _immediately_.

The three ate —strangely enough— in silence, and practically stumbled to their respective sleeping quarters (which in this case, just so happened to be  _any thing in the living room that was soft_ ).

Well, they did until Jack's alarm went off five hours later. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's chapter three up! 
> 
> Yes, Antonio's nearsighted and wears contacts (and sometimes glasses) in this fic. Why? Because I have this thing for contacts/glasses ( leaning towards glasses in particular), even though I actually have no need for them myself—and you guys don't want to hear my ranting and raving, I suppose? 
> 
> A quick question—anyone have a good name for a bar?
> 
> (As in the place, not the food, lol.)


	4. Pamphleteer

The next morning—after the trio had gone back to sleep for at least a half an hour more when they had finally located Jack's phone and turned the dreadful alarm off— was rather a different story for the three young adults, (starting was the day in particular, since it was, of course, Monday). 

Jack, when hit with realization, groaned mentally at the fact, however, he got himself ready for the day—particularly for the part-time job he had—and left the house, leaving his two friends to loaf-around lazily before either of them decided it was about time to return the day's affection. When they did, both headed off—each to their own mentally-made tasks. Antonio, making a quick breakfast for him and Eduard, whilst eating the simple meal, called Matthew (the spelling deemed Matthieu by pretty much anyone who really knew him), their band's incredible bassist, to see what time he'd be available that day—"To practice, Matthieu," Eduard explained as a matter-of-factly.

The bassist agreed in his ever-so-whisper-like voice of his, and Eduard just about sighed in relief for it. 

"This has sincerely been going on for too long, Toni."

"You're telling me," Antonio placed a mug full of coffee on the counter in front of Eduard (which the other man thanked him for). "Jack and Matthieu are always going back and forth on _nothing_."

It was true, on at least four different levels. Jack and Matthieu had never really gotten along. The singer always criticized the bassist, who automatically said a snide remark under his breath; the very spark that triggered a figurative forest on fire. Antonio, however, tried his best to stay neutral, silent or busy in such conflicts, leaving Eduard the dangerous job of being a _peace-bridge_. The shorter man never really succeeded though; instead, he only brought a small hope of a tolerated union—easily crushed as soon as either opened their mouths.

Things hadn't always been this way. Sure, in the beginning, Jack and Matthieu happened to dislike each other just a wee-little-bit, but that was it—and they could probably expect, at least to go through song without fighting—nothing over-the-top or even somewhat close to physical aggression. No, those pieces of the awfully rigid puzzle had yet to come. They were built throughout time, with little shoves and pushes surrounding the two at every angle. The problems that slowly crept their way into the lives of these two young adults did have too battle for their spot on the very top—yes, the other two members of the band tried as hard as they could to be (in some-sort), therapists. 

Evidently, though, their well-intentioned quest failed. 

Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps even if they tried just about everything they could (within the boundaries of reality) the outcome would have remained the same—a strained relationship parallel to a time-bomb. Whether this was the case or not, the predicament at hand was very much a problem. One that threatened to break apart the band the four young adults had strived so hard to create. However, as much as this happened to be an issue—surely Eduard and Antonio were trying their best to hold things together? Who could claim they weren't?

_Bzzzt. Bzzzzt._

"That would be Jack." Antonio stated casually, moving about the kitchen; cleaning up the area to subtly avoid his friend's gaze. 

Eduard stared at the taller man, perplexed by his words. "Jack? Why?"

"He heard you told Matthieu to come to practice." he finally stopped and turned to face his laugh, a smile threatening to grace his lips. 

"Really funny, Antonio."

He shrugged, grinning widely. "You know how quickly Jack picks up on things." 

Hands in the air, shaking his head slightly, Eduard surrendered. "Yes, yes. I know."

"And I know you know." Antonio replied.

Eduard rolled his eyes and took a sip of his coffee.

 _Oh, yes_. He thought. _How well they both knew_. 

And they, perhaps, thought their conversation took up a great deal of time. This was indeed false—the precious moments they were receiving; it was only a blur in the Stream of Time.  Afterward their wrongly made estimate had finished drifting throughout their minds, the morning slipped by quickly, and it was surely as if they had only experienced a  glimpse of a day they had only just predicted would be long.

Yes, soon enough, Antonio found himself back in his own neighborhood, cleaning, writing, practicing and helping Mrs. Sanchez (who lived across the street) with all the odd jobs he knew she always needed done. Eduard, on the other hand, was taking care of business of an important sort—you needn't know the details now—he began practicing right afterward, though.

Whatever other small tasks the two accomplished, eventually they, Jack and Matthieu met up at the ancient, nicely-sized house the four had spent time in for ages upon ages—for Eduard, much longer, since this house was his childhood home, newly in his ownership since his parents had... _ceased living_. 

This is when the four finally caught up with Time—at this very moment, there they all were. Together, (and thankfully not quareling as much as usual, on Jack and Matthieu's parts).

"You were late, _again_." Eduard pointed out, a bit frustrated they had stopped playing at least four times in the past thirty minutes—they nearly nailed the song the last time!

"Is something occuping your mind, Fernández?" Matthieu asked, slightly concerned and partially curious.

Jack's input, however, was all mischievous. "Yeah, Toni, what's happening in your kingdom today? You seem to be somewhere along the lines of paradise." 

Antonino grinned widely as he recalled memories of a _certain_ someone. "I've met someone. A......different someone."

Jack snorted. "Don't be a girl about it—no one here has your tastes in people. Thank Ginsberg."

 Matthieu muttered under his breath, casually played a small melody to a Pink Floyd song he knew as he did.  "All he's doing is turning over in his grave to make room for Lucien to come in and-"

Eduard sighed as he idly hit his drumsticks together. "Let's keep this practice session rated at least less than vulgar." 

Jack turned around to face the drummer and smiled coyly at him. "Yes, mother."

And Eduard? Well, as he counted out for them to begin playing again, he smirked at him. "You wish, _Jackilyn_."

That shut Jack up on the subject—for the time being, that is. 

 

+++

It was late when Antonio left Eduard and Jack's place. He knew he should have stayed— Matthieu had said he'd spend the night, and they could have practiced even more—but he decided against it. He knew, at this point in time, he wouldn't be able to keep his mind on his fingers, _or_ the frets, _or_ the strings, _or_ the tempo, _or_ anything, really. 

No—surely it was known throughout Antonio's mind that last night's events were just about all he could ever hope for (in that sense, of course).

And last night's memories? From the moment he had awaken this morning they all hit him like a rush of blood to the head.

 _Wow_. The only word the Spaniard could think of as his mind replayed the every single detail, in all their glory, their focus driving  on one person in particular: A sarcastic Brit that happened to go by the name of Arthur. 

Ah, Arthur......Arthur was........incredible. In his own unique way, though that factor only added to the proved truth Antonio's mind muttered out—Antonio's truth, however. Technically, that was the only statement he really cared about, was it not? 

It wasn't until about today, that certain details arose in relation to the very first day of the current week—these details being the fact that, even though it was now _Monday_ , soon enough, the next day would be _Thursday_ , and that he really hadn't much of a plan of what was going to happen on that day.

He did know that he was going to hang out with Arthur—there was no question about that—but in his rash speech he managed to accidenly skip over many things that were rather necessary.

The first being _where_ he was going to meet Arthur, the second being _when_ they were going to meet, and the third being _what_ place they going to 'hang out' at. 

 All day long he had very well groaned mentally at his foolishness, and hoped that somehow he'd come up with something—better yet, somehow spot Arthur out on the street as he did last night (however slim the chances on such a thing happening might be, he chose not to dwell on it).

A grim reality came to him instead, and his search for the blonde haired man was ultimately fruitless—leaving him heading home in utter defeat. 

 _It was still Monday_. He kept reminding himself. And Monday it was indeed. He had a few more days to pull everything together. 

Just not that many. 

But, enough. He told himself once he had navigated into the house—much after the usual greetings and the small shenanigans, and the other things  (that most certainly are too annoying to deserve a proper name at this hour)—and somewhat safely found his way into his room; tuning into his soft bed.....

And when he went slept that night, he hope in earnest that Luck would come to his aid as eagerly as Time did. 

That hopefully, this charming guitarist he had met, somehow liked him as much as he enjoyed his presence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heheh, short chapter is short. 
> 
> Sorry you guys had too wait so long for this chapter. I've been extremely busy (particularly with 'jamming out' on my own acoustic guitar and raising money to buy an electric one). However, now it's here, and I hope you all enjoyed reading it.


	5. This is a Fire Door Never Leave Open

This Tuesday he was somewhat pretty lucky. The restaurant he worked at closed much earlier than usual, and there was no disaster in plain sight on its way to stop him tonight. 

As he left the restaurant, he found himself smiling at his _not_ -as-awful-as-usual predicament. It seemed that Life was giving him a break—that, or the restaurant somewhat celebrated too many holidays. 

Even if that wasn't the case, he was still a bit suspicious on these things, on his part. Was Fate trying to make up for all the shitty experiencing it had given it over the years? If so..... _thanks_ , he guessed.

Really, though suspicions had been raised, that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy himself. No, there was very well no way on this _planet_ that he would surely pass up this opportunity. _Never_.

And enjoy himself, he did. He found he commuted back to his apartment safely, and had enough time to bathe, make himself a cup of tea — _good_ tea. Precious stuff he had been saving for a long while. Given to him by....well, his grandfather, actually—and read a bit before the appointed time came. (His long moment, only amounted to approximately twenty minutes. Much less time he had believed was spent).

When the time did arrive, Arthur found himself tempted to stay home and finish all the mystical, ruthless nonsense Mr. Wilde had the audacity to write down. He didn't, however, and reluctantly left the slightly dingy-looking thing he embraced as home and walked to Mathias and Gilbert's apartment. He knocked a little before waiting a bit, and overall, giving up. 

They must have forgotten they had invited him. Or he was late. He wasn't, however. He was exactly on time. He knew it. And so, clear-headed, he came up with his theory. Him joining them must have slipped from their minds.

Not that he cared to much about it. No, it didn't bother him that much—this only  meant more free time. Much, much more.

Though, he ended up heading back into his somewhat cozy living space for only a few moments before becoming bored and heading back out, this time, to the chilly outdoors. If this had been any other day, he mused, he would have promptly despised the cool breeze idly probing and poking his skin. It wasn't, thankfully. No, this day was made absolutely....... _itself_ —if one was allowed to daresay. A fine, gentle day it was in Arthur's eyes. Docile enough for him to head outside into the cold October air and roam around without a plan in mind, his heart lightly set on doing anything and everything and nothing—as long as he so-enjoyed it—judging by the pleasant sensations the outer flesh-covered part of the body experienced.

And so wrapped up he was in this rather joyous happening, that he did not notice three bodies standing only a bit farther down the street from him, their gazes set on the slightly dazed guitarist. They weren't about to wait for him to snap himself out of his glimpse of paradise—with how vocal they became, such a thing could not even be fathomed. 

"Art! Over here!"

It was then, that Arthur was taken from his small corner of relaxation and brought back into reality. 

_Mathias?_

"I almost thought you weren't going to make it," the tall, blonde man as he made his way closer to the shocked guitarist. "What took you so long?"

Gilbert snickered. "What took him so long? Nothing. No, my awesomeness senses that you forgot to tell him all the details—like you always do."

Mathias flushed lightly at the words spoken. "Yeah. Sorry."

Arthur nodded understandingly at him. 

At about the same time, another voice piped up, startling Arthur to a certain degree. The owner of the fore-mentioned voice was Asoka

"Asoka?"

"The one and only," the black-haired man remarked. "who also believes discounts should be included at restaurants." 

Gilbert snorted at his co-worker's comment. "Well, tough break 'soka."

"Yes, Gilbert, woe is me," he said dry sarcasm seeping through his words. They went back and forth a bit, all the young adults adding their input a time or two, until Asoka broke the chain of things:

"It's getting late—shouldn't we go now?" Asoka held up his phone to the other three, the current time flashing in big, bold lighting on it. Gilbert made a playfully comment about impatience in response, though that was the only sentence made of the short man's remark as the others wholly agreed with him—and with that, they were off. Ready for drunkenness beyond levels any of them had experienced. 

Well, all of them except Arthur.

+++

_Urgh, what time was it?_

These were the exact thoughts of Arthur as he somewhat felt himself back outdoors, the chilly air filling his lungs once again that day. It must have not been too late, for Gilbert and Mathias hadn't made a single comment on finalizing this night, nor did Asoka. Instead, the duo seemed to be joking around hardily whilst Asoka kept to an alleyway, doing........doing—what _was_ he doing?

Arthur walked clumsily to the young man slightly hidden behind nightly shadows. When he reached a distance he deemed decent, he tried squinting his eyes to see what was happening within the darkened area. What he saw, however, was not what he was exactly expecting. 

 _Smoking_.

He was smoking.

He would have never taken Gilbert's co-worker to be one who enjoyed the mystical pleasure of the cigar, but then again—if his week wasn't exactly _odd_ enough. 

Asoka came out of his little space a bit and casually held out a cigarette to the Brit. "Want one?" 

And after little to no thought, Arthur oddly found himself accepting the blasted thing. On a regular day basis, he wouldn't have even thought of the idea of smoking. Now, however, the atmosphere was different—it wanted him to relax and enjoy himself—and he was just keeping up with it. 

So he smoked with Asoka. Taking a long drag from the cancer-causing bud, and closing his eyes while doing so, his mind becoming blank for a good time being. Until he received a hard flick to the back of his head (along with a few snickers to compliment it).

"Hello? Art? Are you still with us?"

"Why wouldn't he be," the Danish man next to him was confused. "It's not like we had him on some LSD trip." 

At that, Asoka sighs pleasantly. " _That_ , would be brilliant."

Gilbert snorts at the Indian man's words. "You would think that, Asoka."

"Only me apparently."

"You and Steve Jobs," Arthur breaths out slowly. Mathias laughs and Gilbert smirks at his reply, while Asoka nods, somewhat agreeing with him. At least......he believed he was agreeing with him. H-he wasn't too sure anymore, really. Everything just felt way too _fuzzy.........._

The rest of the hour keeps on like this—with them now walking down sidewalks, not even half-sober anymore, talking about nonsense and doing random things left and right. 

Arthur in particular was cold and quite drunk and humour-filled and experiencing some sort of bliss that he knew nothing of until today. Sure, he had smoked once before (when he was twelve, actually) and had been sipping on whiskey and rum since he was seven, but something about this time was evidently made out of some magic—or Asoka could have messed with the cigar a bit before giving it to him and _he didn't really care that much about it anymore........._

Oh yes, there was definitely something else in that cigarette. There had to be, he reasoned to himself. He felt fucking high and that clearly seemed like the most possible theory he could come up with. Still, it wasn't bad, really. It's just......

He felt as if he were forgetting something. 

Huh? Forgetting what? He checked his jacket pockets. His wallet and apartment key was still there—then, what could he be missing?

He didn't know. Nor did he dwell on the perplexing thought for too much longer as a loud sound rumbled in and invade the space that the confusion had occupied. This noise belonged to a bus, actually. It had stopped and in turn, Gilbert (who surprisingly seemed unaffected by the actives they had indulged into not so long ago) now directed the others onto it, helping him as he pretty much stumbled after Mathias and Asoka, ungainly taking out his wallet, paying for the fare, afterward making his way to the nearest seat—he didn't care anymore, really. He didn't need to care anymore, with his legs feeling like jelly, practically. When he became situated in his seat, however, his somewhat banished thoughts had once again risen from their graves to haunt him with a dampening disorder of the mind. This time, with a small twist, though.

The longing—sharp, painful, lasting, and everything that somehow accurately described his life before.........before _that_. 

No. _No_ , Morrissey. He did not feel the soil falling over his head. H-he......he was happy. He was perfectly content in climbing into a empty bed. 

Y-yes. Where was he? Oh, yes; _that_. If he wanted to be more descriptive with such a bland term, he would have said he. _Yes_ , he—h-he, h-he being Antonio. Attractive, kind, generous........different. In some-way he couldn't exactly explain with his thoughts, he felt drawn to this man. This Antonio, who so interrupted his life, _and........_

The sea didn't want to take him. The night didn't want to slit him. And there was no bride, groom or loud, loutish lover here, damn it!

And, he was happy for it. Yes. He, Arthur Kirkland, was somewhat overjoyed for this intrusion of the senses that was brought by the handsome, charming, _cheery......._  

Wait. He never said he was funny. 

Nor did he say he was clever—he was though........somewhat. Maybe. 

And he wished—he wanted to see more of this peculiar fellow. Whom horrid Fate let interrupt _him......_  

Oh, for Heaven's sake, Morrissey! He wasn't entertaining—maybe when he suffered.

He wasn't good-looking either—however, it wasn't as if he was one to flaunt out such things. _Really, you awfully talented Smiths_ _—leave me alone tonight!_

Why was this happening to him? Why did everything hurt so much, then? Why? Damn this feeling! Damn it.....

 _And_ that was the last this night heard from Arthur for a couple of minutes—as he had promptly passed into a small slumber. 

++

"Hey, Art, get up. Art? You aren't planning to stay on the bus, are you?"

"He's sleeping." Mathias remarked quietly. 

" _And_ , let's wake him."

"Or, we could leave him here."

"Hehe, I think that's the best idea you've had all night."

Arthur rubbed his eyes and resisting swinging his fist at whoever was mocking him with their commentary—and whoever was agreeing with whom—instead, he sat up in his spot and tried to quickly shake the sleepiness off himself. 

"Art, now's not the time to take so long—the bus driver's fed up with waiting for us." 

"Especially," Arthur slurred out as he got up from the seat. "since Gilbert's p-pr-probably been c-cracking jokes about him..... Am I right?"

"The bus driver's a she." Asoka informed him quietly, grabbing one side of the wobbling Brit while Gilbert grabbed the other side. In this formation, they awkward got off the bus, and began heading down the street, only a bit more ground that they needed to cover. 

At this point in time, Arthur oddly began to wonder on trivial things, such as: Why didn't Asoka go home long beforehand? Why was it freezing right now? And, what time was it? He didn't receive any answers, though, as all his questions stayed within his head. He did, however, find himself back inside the apartment building he, Gilbert and Mathias lived in, in a matter of several minutes:

"Hey Art, take care!" Mathias said gleefully, his features looking a bit tipsy as well.

"Don't fall on your way in," Gilbert taunted. "or right after you close the door."

"Goodnight." was all that Asoka said as he promptly followed Gilbert and Mathias into their flat. 

Arthur silently nodded at all of them—too afraid to speak and accidenly say something embarrassing—and fiddled within his jacket pockets to find his keys. It took about three whole minutes of frustration, but eventually he managed to find the keys, unlock the door to his apartment, enter it and shut the damn door behind him.

He sighed heavily—home! Home at last! Home and sleep!

Which was exactly what he accomplished: He shucked off his shoes and socks, practically threw himself on the couch, and slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse me, my fellow readers, however, I'm laughing my guts out after finishing this chapter. Sure, it was sad, but I shan't withold admitting that I enjoyed writing it very much. 
> 
> The song in particular is I Know It's Over by The Smiths. It's rather melancholy and beautiful and the music combined with Morrissey's voice is oh-so-amazing. However, I cannot resist torturing my victims with Smiths' lyrics, haha. I'm just intertwined with them—so much so, I can't help sneaking a bit of them in my stories. 
> 
> Also, did anyone find all the references I stuck in there? (I know there's a rather big lot of them, but whoever finds them all gets thirty points, haha.)


	6. Without Mythologies

Twas a bright, beautiful Wednesday evening; the time very much being early, still giving its usual tribute to the sun as it lit the way for all those who chose to accept its presence. At least, this was how the evening had started out, before calamity had struck a particular group of people.

They, known as The Proofreaders to the audience they entertained—they, also known as normal human beings to the people who had known them—Jack, Antonio, Matthieu, and Eduard; their lineup, respectively. Until, this day, on this very pleasant evening, that was:

" _Fuck_ ," was the swore that fell from the lips of the Australian man whilst on the phone. "Fuck every single thing in Heaven, Hell and Earth."

He swore, but his swearing somehow became justified: Not even five minutes ago, Matthieu had quit the band.

Fuck everything indeed—they weren't complete without Matthieu. Not at all. 

Yes, their bassist had left the band; permanently. The funny thing was, they all knew the past few months had been leading up to someone similar to this, with all the arguments that had boiled out the pot; ending with a bit too much drinking on two certain people's parts. 

Now, however, it was finalize. Matthieu left the band, claimed he wasn't coming back, and took his equipment and share in the band immediately—which sadly also comprised of a coffee mug that was only innocently lying on  the counter when it was snatched away, never to be seen by its fellow dishes again, it believed.

However horrid this predicament was, nothing it could have done stopped irony from slipping in with all its charismatic guile—yes. Oh, how present dearest irony was in the bitter situation. In the worst way, as well. This meaning, brought forth into reality by one person: Jack.

Yes, It wouldn't be exactly 'fair' to pin the fault on the singer—as much as it truthfully was—however, even the atmosphere found it difficult not to shift its mood and express annoyance to the singer's comment. How....... _how_ could one be so hypocritical in their speech, that they practically clean out their involvement within the scene of crime? _How?_

Even so, no words were given to form a proper remark to the comment previously spewed out. None at all; silence dominating the scenario in more ways than one. This was not too bothersome—in a sense that would most definitely would not include any unsaid mental or emotional opinions—and the trio coped with the lost rather well; _somewhat_. 

Eduard, for one, was not speaking to Jack, or anyone, really. Neither was he drinking away the problem at hand; nor venting out his frustration physically but stayed silence; a sullen, tired tension surrounding him. Jack continued to spew out profanities and took a pint or so of something akin to liquor, and Antonio—well, the rather equally devastated fellow left. His heart heavy, mind foggy, whilst secretly hoping this was some sort of bad joke. That their bassist; their _friend_ , Matthieu, hadn't left the band; that he hadn't pulled the plug and destroyed any chance of them progressing as a musical set. 

Sure, they were probably plenty of bassists out there in this vast world; in this small city, however, what certainly plunged the idea into a figurative pit of fire was a small fire; a crack that only release one simple truth: _It_ , their slightly accidental creation that somehow morphed into a band, would not be the same. And he knew this—they knew this, however, they had failed. Failed horribly to keep together a musical-centered universe that had taken so much time to build, and rebuild, and rebuild, and rebuild; bringing their hard work and tireless effort to rot on the cold, unforgiving ground.

And there was nothing they could do about it. Nothing at all. 

This feeling of misery had many sub-categories, one in particular including Antonio's regret for drinking coffee so late in the day, especially since now all wanted to do was crawl into his probably cold bed and forget the horrible thing that had severed a wondrous thing. This object comforted his mind greatly, surrounding him with a bubble to block the depress sensations cornering him. However, it was not he too bad, he supposed. He was alone, able to freely try and refresh his mind from all the ever-ringing torment it was still receiving. No he instead was left to himself, just the way he wanted it to be—for a decent period of time, if anything. However, as cruel fate would have it, no solitary peace would given to the spectacles-wearing man now—in its place, an interruption was given instead:

"Antonio?" 

The voice practically came out of the shadows, slightly perplexed it seemed, but slightly gleeful all the same. The fore-mentioned verbal expression almost made him jump out of his own skin; pretty much. Who? He wondered. Who could be bothering him at such a time of this, when no one he knew would be roaming around at this hour? Well, unless that person was Arthur—and it probably was, he told himself, putting his weariness on hold to engage in his present predicament (all meaning: and so, the sorrow-laden young adult turned around at the sound of a familiar set of vocals).

  "Arthur."

The heavily bundled-up man looked slightly nervous, almost as if he would bolt away in second; he didn't, though. "Fancy meeting you here, again," he said to Antonio, sarcasm only lightly sprinkled on his words. 

Antonio nodded. "Mmmhmm."

It was up to this point of.........very small, small talk, that their conversation had rather, traveled downhill if anything: 

"So, um..."

"Yeah, I.."

"Uh...."

"I really....."

"Well, I....."  _Pull yourself together_ , Arthur. _Pull yourself together_. "Uh-uh, d-d'you remember on Sunday when you......y'know, asked me out."

"Yes," he replied, his facial expressions not betraying the feelings he now felt within. He believed so, if anything, and looking at the man drawing him into conversation, he seemingly did not appear aware of Antonio's inner battle with his emotions and the growing need to want to crawl into his bed and never leave it ever again. 

"I realized that I......... I don't have any way of contacting you," the acid-green-eyed man said, letting a small side-grin express how sheepish he felt. "and we didn't exactly agree on the time or place...."

"......yes." Antonio knew he would somewhat regret not being as engaging as he should have been, however, he could not exactly help himself—or the blatant fact that tragedy came like lightening, striking him quick, but heavily—and only wished that somehow Arthur would understand (even with his lack of knowledge in the situation)......apparently. All the while, he didn't. He wished none of his situation upon anyone else. Not at all, but.........if only he was allowed a moment to rest and ponder over all the conflicting things within his brain. Only one measly little second; if fate wouldn't mind (which, from all the 'free-time' it now stores up, it really had no right to be angry). All the while, he couldn't bring himself to be too disappointed at the information being brought forth—for, wasn't he wishing to find time to do the same thing? To somehow find this green-eyed guitarist and ask he details he had foolishly forgotten too the last time that they had met?

"Yes—I mean," the blonde-haired man continued to slightly shake in his nervousness as the worked up the courage to finish off the topic he had brought to the present. "Well, it was silly of me to forget, so I suppose I might exchange information with you now; if you've got a moment to spare, y'know....?"

He did—letting a plan be made correctly for the upcoming day. Soon after, the two went separate ways when a few extra words were tossed about and each had said their goodbyes. Leaving Antonio to drag himself home, excuse himself from the herd of questions and the bullying of eating whatever his family had made; somehow ending up in his nice bed; still in the day's clothing, feeling rather miserable at best. 

+++

Arthur, on the other hand, wasn't too far behind him. Humiliation and regret leaked out of him in large dosages Why? Why did he do that? He was so stupid. So, so stupid to think that a guy like Antonio actually showed interest in the likes of him. Now he knew, though—everything was good to be true. However, he saw it today. He _saw_ it. Perhaps he was overreacting but he knew his eyes weren't playing tricks on him —Antonio was crumbing. He was most likely in an awful situation, and that probably triggered the look he gave Arthur, right? Yes. No. Maybe? He hadn't any true outlook on such things—he wouldn't any way, though—and his guess was as good and as right as the others, however, this one especially sounded plausible to Arthur as he rummaged throughout his living space for currently craved necessities. Once the fore-mentioned items were found, he slightly tidied-up his apartment, stripped down to nothing and showered. As the lukewarm water hit him, he inwardly hoped all the negative thoughts produced weren't true—for once in his life, he finally felt something good was shinning his way. Something he truly wished, would last a long, long while. But, he realized, —as an idiot would, he mused—he would have to change his outlook on the world itself. They would have to be brought back to life; become brand new.

Just like the day that started as soon as Arthur's eyes closed for the final time that night, him drifting off to the dream-world once more. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter is _really short!_ Hooray!   
>  Yes, the name of their band is The Proofreaders. _Why?_ You might wonder. Well, I truthfully say I don't have much of a clue besides the fact that I greatly respect proofreaders—er, hopefully that's a somewhat understandable, legit reason........maybe?


End file.
